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It didn't matter any more. The telling of the story took a long time, and when he finished, Meta's soft small kitten-face was compassionate. "I'm glad you decided what you did," she whispered. "It's what a Mentorian would have done. I know that other races call us slaves of the Lhari. We aren't. We're working in our own way to show the Lhari that human beings can be trusted.
Raynor Three swung to Bart. "Put that on again." He indicated the Mentorian cloak. "Pull the hood right up over your head. Now, if we meet anyone, say a polite good afternoon in Lhari you can speak Lhari? and leave the rest of the talking to me."
Behind the confines of the spaceport he could see the ridges of tall hills and unfamiliarly colored trees. He longed to explore them, but he got a grip on his imagination, surrendering his ticket stub and false papers to the Lhari and Mentorian interpreter who guarded the ramp. The Lhari said to the Mentorian, in the Lhari language, "Keep him for questioning but don't tell him why."
They sat him in a comfortable chair, and the Mentorian interpreter said gently, with apology: "Bart Steele, I have been asked to say to you that you will not be physically harmed in any way. This will be much simpler, and will have much less injurious effect on your mind if you cooperate with us.
He used the Universal word; there were, of course, no words for colors in the Lhari speech. "The man we sssseek has hair of red," said the Lhari. "And he isss tall, not fat." "The boy is tall and with red hair," the Mentorian volunteered, and the old Lhari made a gesture of disdain. "This boy is twenty years younger than the man whose description came to us.
"You fool," said Vorongil to the Mentorian, in disgust, "why didn't you tell him what the medics had done for him? Easy, Bartol!" The old Lhari's arm tightened around his shoulder. "I thought they'd told you. Somebody come here and give the youngster a hand."
He was uncountable millions of light-years from his own people. He was absolutely alone. Bravery would mean nothing; submission would mean nothing. Would he be more of a man, somehow, if he let his mind be wrecked? "All right," he muttered, "I won't fight." "You show your good sense," the Mentorian said quietly. "Give me your left arm, please or, if you are left-handed, your right. As you prefer."
He hurried away, and Bart, his head beginning to hurt, walked slowly up the ramp. His whole arm felt numb, and he supported it with his good hand. In the small infirmary, Karol lay groaning in a bunk, his arm bound in bandages, his head moving from side to side. The Mentorian girl Meta turned, charging a hypo. She looked pale and drawn.
No, you're not going to be killed." "If I had my way " the old medic began, and suddenly Vorongil flew into a rage. "Get out!" The medic went stiffly through the door, and Vorongil stood gazing down at Bart, shaking his yellowed crest. "I don't know what to say to you. It was a brave thing you did, but perhaps no braver than you've done all along. Are you a Mentorian?" "Only half."
There was even a row of buttons dispensing synthetic foods, in case a passenger preferred privacy or didn't want to wait for meals in the dining hall. A buzzer sounded and a Mentorian voice announced, "Five minutes to Room Check. Passengers will please remove all metal in their clothing, and deposit in the lead drawers.
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